


It's Beautiful

by immortal_meta



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Crying, Crying Hannibal Lecter, Dark Will Graham, Declarations Of Love, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Realisation, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortal_meta/pseuds/immortal_meta
Summary: Will has started to acknowledge himself(Mid-S2)"He feels his own heartbeat thrum beside the throbbing pulse of Will's throat ; The melody of the divine halls finally swims in synch with the echo of the stream."I already have." He whispers, in a measured silence of presumption and awareness."
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 96





	1. I

"Why have you resumed your therapy?"- Hannibal is looking persistently in his eyes, making it clear he knows what he sees in them.  
"Can't just talk to any psychiatrist about what's kickin' round my head"- Will keeps the eye contact as he so often does with Hannibal. He isn't looking for something in his eyes. This is a demonstration.  
"You fantasize about killing me"  
Will pauses and the gaze they share intensifies.  
"Yes." No hesitation of the statement .  
"Tell me, how would you do it?" Hannibal's tone is light and curious and his light head tilt emphasizes the question.  
Will answers in an intense, quiet almost whisper  
"With my hands"  
Hannibal purposefully visibly flinches, yet no surprise has crossed his eyes. His face muscles haven't moved.  
"Then we haven't moved past apologies and forgiveness, have we?"

"We've moved past a lot of things"  
Will's stare exudes concentration and intensity, hints of amusement just enough for Hannibal to see them.  
"I discovered a truth about myself when i tried to have you killed." Will narrows his eyebrows  
"That doing bad things to bad people makes you feel good."  
Will nods irregularly multiple times."Yes."

"I need to know if you're going to try to kill me again, Will." Hannibal forces concern in his voice.  
Will takes his time with his verbal answer, making it obvious before he says it. He licks his lips, softly shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed  
"I don't want to kill you anymore, Doctor Lecter. Not now that i finally find you interesting."  
Hannibal lets a slight smile answer for him.  
.  
.  
.  
Will is standing, leaning on one of the wooden pillars holding up the library on the second floor of Hannibal's office.  
"We talked about how i would do it." He said quietly. His gaze was zoned out in the dark leg of the chair, in which Hannibal was sitting.  
They both know Will doesn't need to specify.  
Hannibal had his elbows stabilized on his knees and his hands intertwined, leaning in Will's direction, eyes not leaving him.  
He gives him an expectant look. He knows Will can feel it, even though he's not returning his eye contact. He's not looking at anything, yet he's very aware of Hannibal. He may be in a different place, but the company is none other.  
"I had a dream related to that."  
"What was it about?"  
Will licks his lips and zones back in with his eyes wandering off to consume the astounding room they were in. He had made it his task to memorize every detail of it as to add it to his Memory Palace. His mind had always registered it as important. He picked his words precisely, as he often did with Hannibal.  
"You were restricted. Tied to a tree with rope, that could rip your skin apart, were i to whistle at the stag that was in charge of the rope and waiting for me to command.  
You were telling me about a monster growing inside of me."  
"What did that prompt from you, Will?"  
Will's entire tone had shifted from the other day. He was going to tell him. That was not a defeat, it was a decision. He wanted Hannibal to assist him in interpreting that dream. He wanted to show him his own interpretation.


	2. II

"I knew you weren't lying. Not then."  
Will is returning Hannibal's gaze. His head tilted slightly forward. The warm red light of the dying sun seeping through the countless obstacles, though Hannibal's windows and glazing a side of Will's face.  
"You told me that one can never be fully aware of another human being unless we love them. That through this love, they see their potential, and by expressing that love, it comes true."  
Hannibal notices the way Will emphasizes every time he says 'love'. Will's past experience with anything resembling love had faded, upon being observed by the same eyes, that looked at Hannibal's love.  
"Did i die in this dream?"  
"Yes."  
"A manifestation of your desires from reality. Your desire to kill me is being let go." His voice is light and orbits the certainty in of his words.  
"The darkness of your subconscious making an appearance due to stimulation."  
"Would you describe yourself as that stimulation, Hannibal?"  
"Would you?"  
"I would."  
Lecter is content with that answer, even though he already knows it's true. Yet with Will, the accuracy is of less importance than his reaction to it.  
"This dream is a declaration of my love to you. Perhaps that is provoked by your desire to hear it in reality."  
The soft movements of his head and eyebrows, the reflection in his eyes, are soaked with concentration.  
"Would you deem what i said in that dream as corresponding with your perception of my acts towards you in real life?" 

"I'm conflicted. You're implanted in my brain so deeply, that you've seeded yourself in my subconscious when even i had not.  
"You have done most of it yourself."  
"I've done it without my conscious permission. I have built a connection between my mind and my subconscious. With you, Dr Lecter."  
Will and Hannibal have been holding eye contact for an eternity, lifting this conversation upon levels of intimacy they both reciprocate.  
"You're only afraid to follow it. This is also a connection between me and you."  
"This realization has made my uneasiness of the uncertainty about you increase." Will addresses it by 'realization' purposefully.  
"I would tell you anything you need, Will."  
"And yet the answer is within myself. I need clarity."  
"Follow that connection. Will."

.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He must.

Wanting to push him away. To regain control over his feelings. To reject him once more, for the sake of proving to himself his own independence. And yet. Realizing that which Hannibal does, is not motivated by desire of fostering dependence. That is merely the threat of consequence. Of his actions, his presence. His consuming presence, pulling Will towards himself with inescapable force, and pushing him away simultaneously. Will wants to clear his head about Hannibal. About himself. The answer being in himself only makes its seeking harder - for it is buried in a pit of damp, black dirt; soaked with blood; bleeding its scent into the air, as if it is reaching for the moon to become absorbed by it.  
Digging into this pit, he's forgetting all that is around him.  
Locking himself in his own mind for the sake of studying it, yet isolating himself from his surroundings - the very thing he needs to hold onto.  
His mind narrowing into one hall, flooding all the others with a transparent heavy liquid veil.  
Approaching insanity.  
He mustn't dig. He must moisturize the soil.  
Then will the answer he seeks from himself surface.  
He must go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo comment if you like it


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He creates a moonlit butterfly.

Will is sitting at the restaurant at the corner of a not-so-well-known street. It's almost midnight. The one floor place is filled with thick dim orange light, heavy aroma of cheap food and heated discussions. Moderately full. Discussions about the stupidest things, too. He knows the kind of crowd these places attract. That's precisely the reason he's there. He's needed peace to clear his mind.. as much as he can, at least.  
He's done with that now.  
One of those discussions is getting progressively way more heated than the necessity of conveying your point dictates. Will looks over to one of the tables diagonally 20 feet from his own.  
It's not a discussion, though, is it. More of a dispute. More accurately, a man yelling his vocal chords out and threatening his wife. As much of a shithole this place may be, their intolerance for this kind uncivilized abuse has become apparent by the two guards, who approach that table, taking their time as if the man would see them and shut up. He doesn't, and that was fully expected. They grab both his upper arms and eventually throw him out. He hesitates when he starts resisting them - he has experience with being dragged like that. He both has the look of a man that knows resisting is pointless, and also does not care for the point, for resisting is amusing to him. He'll see who's going home amused tonight, though, won't he.  
  
Will looks down for a moment. He's been following and watching this man discreetly for the past hour.  
He's already paid his check too. His phone starts ringing. Will gets up from his table, nods at the staff and makes is way to the exit. Turning off the alarm he purposefully set for a minute after the man's departure, he lets the door behind him slam shut.  
Hearing the muffled noise of stupidity and the orange light growing fainter and fainter in his peripheral, he locates the man of his targeting.  
Walking impossibly silent behind him, making sure his actions remain hidden by the shadow of a building and a lack of strong street lights.  
He hits right where he would instantly pass out - the back of his neck - due to blocking the immediate blood circulation needed to sustain his consciousness. Will catches and drags the man by his shoulders to where he parked his car.  
.  
.  
Around an hour later, the man has started to wake up. He groans, moving his head unsteadily and attempting to open his eyes. He is not aware of his location and he quickly realizes that. What he also realizes, is that he's unable to move his limbs. He can only look - so that's what he does. His eyes widen and his jaw stays loose. He is in a forest.  
The midnight moonlight seeping through the dry tree branches, so delicately illuminating the dirt, stones and leaves. Like a paint brush soaked with white, gently caressing the surroundings of the night. His only possible movement is the shivering that overtakes him. The sharp wind stabbing as a warning, his teeth clacking audibly.  
Will is crouched on the ground in front of the man with his back to him. He is preparing.  
Rope. A hunting knife. An almost two-meter long wooden stake. A bucket. The other props are unidentifiable by the barely-conscious man. He closes his eyes, feeling the effects of whatever sedative is lazily poisoning his reflexes. Will is now in front of him. So close the man can feel his breath on his own forehead, warm and steady, contrasting with the silent cool blows of the wind.

Will lays the pole on the ground. He turns to the man and drags him into a position, aligning his spine with the wood. He ties the legs of the man together around the stake and secures them with knots. He spreads his arms in a T position and ties his each wrist to his neck with a long rope, making his arms appear as lazily opened wings.  
  
The neck of the man is also tied to the stake, cutting off circulation, yet not depriving him of sensation. He's able feel everything that's about to happen.  
  
Will gets up from tying the man and gets his knife. His blood is calmly cooperating with him, his adrenaline isn't blinding.   
His mind isn't racing. It's marking his every new step.  
Taking the sharp knife and looking into it, he sees his reflection graced by the delicate silver moonlight. He has never looked better. Behind himself he spots a coal black tall figure, antlers entwined with the branches, appearing as black as it is. His Wendigo. Will looks at its reflection and lightly smiles.  
The knife cuts through the man's skin like pig fat  
. Will's movements are as steady as he can get them to be, his main focus both on the outcome, and the act itself.  
The knife slowly flows below the skin of the man's forearm and blood starts leaking from the long deep cut. Thick, sticky, sweet-smelling blood. It appears dark-red, almost black. The way the blood both elegantly and messily paints its surroundings, the diversity of its shades reflecting the faint yet consistent luminescence of the moon, is mesmerizing.  
Will skins the man's whole arms, letting the skin hold onto his arm at the bottom of them, like drapes. Like... wings. The back of the man is also parted- strips of skin tied above and below the draped arms- appearing as a giant wings.  
  
The man is almost dead. Will props up the wooden pole and stakes it into the ground in front of a tree. His masterpiece is now on display.   
He guts him with the goal of his blood filling the bucket he placed before the man's feet. He watches as his life drains both from his eyes, and into the bucket below him. He is transforming. Will does not back away from the body.  
  
The blood in the bucket is eager for Will to use it. It is seducing him, flowing and moving with every drop that joins it.   
Inviting Will.  
He takes the bucket off the ground. Pouring the bucket over the head of the body, coating his creation in its own past fuel. Changing the form of its existence.  
Will now collects his instruments. He now backs away from the man and turns to him to admire his work. He's beautifully orchestrated, his wings and conjoined legs, his almost- naked body, glazed in his own blood, dripping into the ground, damping and nourishing the dirt beneath him.  
Will's senses are indulging this new being.  
The earthy scents of the moist dirt, infusing with the sweet and sharp metallic aroma of blood, the aura of elevation surrounding this place....  
.  
.  
.  
.  



	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't skim through it.

During the act, Will's mind is calm. It's not frozen. More as moving and flowing into the tight black space of the sky above him. He's his own spectator. Wendigo is a spectator too. He is unable to become betrayed by any of his senses. They're not supporting him either. They're one with him. He is one with himself.  
.  
Steady heartbeats. His heart isn't pounding. His head throbs with each beat, yet he couldn't be more aware of what's happening outside of his head.  
Not a trace of hesitation, the slow pace of his movements only caused by his desire to indulge in the process of his Becoming. No rushing. Thinking and analyzing have blocked themselves from distracting him, faded as a temporary obstacle in his way. His emotions. His instincts are the focus of this act. He doesn't analyze himself and what this act has provoked in him. The way this act has stroked him and he has stroked it. The way both entities have changed each other, this act becoming its own entity.  
.  
'I feel like I've been gradually becoming different."  
Will remembers his own words. The way his disorientation harbored a fear of himself and his capabilities, his thoughts erratically pumping through his mind, adding to the disorientation. Not trusting himself, feeling both betrayed by himself, and in the need to betray himself. Balance and peace erasing themselves as concepts from his mind, and with them his sense of divine and evil, justice, love ... reality.  
And when the poison was ceased.. when the venom cleared... His past, immensely confused self had been lost. The part of him that was afraid to let the wickedness out of its desperately, chaotically constructed cage, had been lost. His desire of approval lost with it too. His desire of approval and his desire to relate. And now.. With the scales off his eyes... relating to the people he had previously tolerated seems shameful. To allow the grip of normality to tear apart his soul and show it to him like trash. Relating to people worth despising. Despising yourself and simultaneously pulling yourself to that which you despise. He chose to be the one that tears apart. His disdain for all he had attempted to be piercing through his shell and cracking it open. His subconscious coming out. He is his subconscious.  
.  
.  
Hannibal had been right. He is not alone in that darkness.  
For he is standing right beside Will.


	6. VI

Will has not returned to his home, nor Hannibal's, nor has he contacted Jack. He hasn't contacted anybody for the past few days. He has to be alone - for the sake of avoiding influence. Like a freshly bloomed flower, his fragile state of self is prone to immense damage. He does not yearn for communication now, and it would do more harm than the isolation he puts himself in. He needs himself as a whole more than himself in some situation. He feels weak in his strength.  
But as Will had dove into himself and his fragility had subsided, time had passed. The need to go back to an unsuspiciously similar lifestyle had begun to nibble on him. He had to return.  
Thankfully his Becoming had been purposefully aligned with a weekend, thus making his disappearance negligible to those not eager in seeking him out.  
A fresh Tuesday morning, almost at sunrise, had Will on his own porch about to cross the line between his openly dark self and the one he'll hide himself behind. The pack of dogs started to whimper and claw at the door upon smelling him. He opened the door to let them out and noted the fact that they had not begun to bark when they heard someone outside. They seemed energetic.  
Hannibal had been coming to feed them. Which also meant that he would come today as well.  
Will opened his windows and proceeded to do the same with the door, getting rid of the stagnant odor his cabin had developed. Evidently, Hannibal had not been letting air in. He made his way to the bathroom and stripped out of whatever was left of his clothes, which had been reduced to only his boxers. Cold had not bothered him.  
Stepping through in the glass cabin, he turns on and adjusts the water, not forgetting his front door is fully open. He quickly scrapes the dirt, blood -residue of his Creation and evidence of his Becoming's freshness, and sweat off of himself.  
Coming out of his shower fully bare, Will makes his way to the door and closes it. Dresses himself up. He throw his dogs bits of whatever he can find in his fridge and drawers, their emptiness a reminder of the way his past self had been so deep in his own chaotic confusion and instability, he barely ate. That same self he just washed off. He smiles at himself.  
Hannibal knows, and Will knows it. It was clear from the second he realized Hannibal'd known of his absence, and from the context of their last conversation.


	7. VII

Almost an hour has passed when Will hears a distant engine roar slowly get louder from the road outside his cabin. Hannibal has really taken to caring for his dogs seriously - he's awoken this early just in order for them not to soil Will's house, and to satiate their undying hunger. Will wonders what Hannibal must think of dogs. 

The engine stops and Hannibal gets out of his car, which he doesn't lock. He instinctively scans the area around the small house for any sign of Will, but even with no visible hinting at his presence, Hannibal knows he's there. He must be. He's not reckless - Alana had taken over his class on Monday and Hannibal had told her Will didn't feel well enough to lead it himself. He undoubtedly knew the suspicion that would arise from the aligning - of his absence, and the body that had been so invitingly displayed in the center of the forest.  
Hannibal breathed in the cool sharpness of the air and squinted at the newly risen sun stinging the side of his face. He slowly made his way to the front of the house, and when the dogs didn't begin whimpering, he felt his heartbeat fasten in anticipation. He raised his hand and gently gripped the door handle, sensing another hand mirror his movement from the inside. He smiled softly at the feeling and slowly opened the door. The moment the glimpse of Will's face through the tiny crack of the door expanded into a full view of him, Hannibal's tiny smile faded into an expression of sheer awe.  
"Hannibal"- an almost whisper, from Will's expression it was evident that he had been expecting him, and yet his face muscles relaxed, mouth slightly agape, and his eyes involuntarily widened to take in the sight of Hannibal before him.  
"Will..." The tone of this sacred word had been softer than Hannibal had intended it to be. He stepped inside the house and closed the door behind him, unwilling to break eye contact with Will. He stepped back to allow Hannibal the distance to close the door.  
They stood before each other overwhelmed at the sight.  
Will was so different. His movements regarding Hannibal had been gentler than ever, and his every other move had been ..calculated. He looked sharply aware of his environment, despite it being his own home. It was clear he had been somewhere requiring a connection with his instincts, likely the woods. The man before him had come in touch with them, having full control over them and understanding them fully, and yet perfectly capable of going against them. His mind was visibly clearer. He had changed in the most breathtaking way for Hannibal.  
Hannibal had the look of admiration and unexpecting satisfaction on his face. His hands had quivered twice in a controlled urge to touch Will. Will could sense his acknowledgement. He saw Hannibal see him. They saw each other. This sacred moment of their mutual acknowledgment, their eyes gazed past the other's, and both zoned out into each other, abstracted from space and time. Hyper aware of each other.  
Their sense of sight overwhelmed, their minds focused on another sensation, something neither of them had ever felt. Their essences flowing together as vats of black and grey smoke, circling around one another with grace and no need of a rush.  
Engulfed in this vision, Hannibal extended slowly his hand and his fingertips met Will's halfway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated!


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chase to end all times.

Hannibal gets lost in the touch. He hadn't let the calculative part of his mind recreate or think about this moment. The moment of absolute immersion in and of Will he drowns in right now.  
What he had let himself anticipate was completely gone. In this sacred moment he only feels Will. The light in the room hadn't reached them yet, but it was growing stronger and illuminating all around the house; the dogs kept on sniffling around the room and time still continued to pass, but none of that held any importance to Them.  
Hannibal hadn't been one to dwell on empathy and his own perception of it. Now he is. It didn't warp into leaving his own body and taking inhabitance of the one he empathizes with, like Will. Instead he felt a part of that which Will feels now... unintentionally.  
Will hadn't let himself even come close to planning anything for when he saw Hannibal. He wanted to let the moment happen. And it did. For the first time, it isn't a game of chase.  
He felt Hannibal's unbelievably fast heartbeat drum through his own hand, his head, spreading into his entire being and merging with the pulse of his own heart. Blood that flows together.  
The stun of their fingertips engaging in contact and the divinity of this feeling had subsided in order to clear their senses and bring them back into a state of being able to move, got them out of each other's heads.  
Slowly, their fingers entwined and their shared gaze dropped to look at them. They bring their entwined hands up and get closer to one another. They connect eyes again and now their faces are on one level, so close. . . Mutual leaning in. Their noses touch.  
"I was expecting you. I know you know that." The gentleness in Will's whispering tone over his naturally raspy voice is a melody to Hannibal's ears. He could feel the moisture of Will's voice over his lips.  
"But all preparation seems to have melted away." Hannibal quietly states as a completion of the other's sentence, and lowers his eyes to lock on Will's lips.  
"I can no longer be prepared for you."  
Will steps away and the breaking of contact doesn't irritate either of them. Hannibal proceeds to place his bag on the table near him and take its contents out. Will looks at them surprised, as he circles around Hannibal to get closer to the table.  
"Human sushi? Daring , ..." He almost says Hannibal's name, but refrains. He wants to do so in a ... different ..situation.

.  
.  
.


	9. IX

"I've always appreciated challenges."

"I know." Will quietly responds as he takes another bite of Hannibal's masterpiece with his already raised fork.

Where they were sitting, Hannibal's hair shines softly as the sharp morning light reaches it; he was looking at Will like the day he had thought him dead by Tobias' hand. Adoration glistened in his eyes and a slight smile graced his ever-neutral demeanor. Will looked at him in a similar way, the quietly dangerous, intimidating presence and the calculated expression all gone. Guard down for the first time willingly.  
Both of their guards down, just for each other.  
"May I ask of this meal's origins?" Will lifted his eyebrows almost imperceptably and continued to work his jaw. What Hannibal would give to see blood dripping from that jaw...

"Harvested from an unusual source. As you know my preference lies in the living."

"What made you shift your preference?" He was already curious and a little suspicious.

"I felt an inexplicable urge to collect something from the scene I saw orchestrated."  
There was no way.  
Will immediately froze. His eyes widened and shot up to look at Hannibal.  


"To present the designer with a part of his design he had yet to revel in."-He continued. Hannibal held Will's eyes with a sinister proudness and watched as Will's eyes slowly smile back at him, a dangerously thrilling gaze, sharing the unspoken.  
It had astounded him. The night he came across the Butterfly, he had been following his intuitive feeling of where he thought Will might be, and he arrived an hour or so, after Will had left. A piece of art he memorized and savored the sight of. An acceptance-an admission. A Becoming. As he had done with Mischa, he took a part of It to prolong its honoring.  


"You intended me to consume a part of my own creation as a continuation of my becoming?"  


"Consume the creation - further the bond." Hannibal finishes his plate and raises his head to look at Will.  
Will smiles tenderly at him, his eyes watering and filing with an emotion Hannibal has trouble recognizing.  
Hannibal feels his stomach turn slightly at this sight and he returns the smile subconsciously.  
It's the first time he's seen this smile grace Will's features.  
What Hannibal would give to see him like this every day...


	10. X

It is raining.  
"I have to admit you're not alone in your inability to predict." Will says, standing beside Hannibal on his porch.

The rain pours around them, wide fields soaking with the consistent flow of water from the dark clouds stirring above them. He really does live in the middle of nowhere.  
A fog of comfort washes over the two men.

"My analytical mind does have trouble doing so with you."

"My intent is not to leave smart clues for you to swallow and put together. I was referring to the ...surprise I felt upon realizing you've harvested ingredients from the body I deprived from life. I knew you picked up on it."

"Your intent has shifted and I would not be as unwise as to ask you why. I am aware you do not see what you've done as an act of deprivation, as well."

"You are right. I don't." Will returns in a raspy voice, remembering distantly his thought and finding it to be a perfect fit. "He was merely the ink from which my poem flows."

"A poem meant for yourself or for me?" Hannibal asks slowly and turns to Will, who has extended his arm and was seemingly lost in the way the unrelenting rain hits and drips from and around it.

"Both. Many poets write for the sake of self-expression and no other. I wanted you to know mine is different from that." He retracts his arm and lets it fall to his side, facing Hannibal. He hadn't realized how close they were standing to each other now.  
Hannibal exhales and licks his lips.  
"I know. It was incredibly beautiful. With all the literature I've admired, your poem certainly has no rival in my mind, Will." From his voice is clear he's touched.  
Hannibal is the one who breaks the gaze and looks back to the rain ahead. He lightly lifts the inner corners of his eyebrows, and Will thinks he's imagining seeing his eyes fill up with water. His stomach stirs. Hannibal is showing his raw emotions. He didn't filter them through that sift in his mind that lets out only what he needs others to see. No. Not now, not with Will.

Will smiles. "You're curious what I'd do when Jack finds him."

"It is inevitable. Yes, I am."

"Will you be consulting on the case?"

"I might. Will you?"  
They are speaking almost above a whisper, yet the words they utter aren't muffled by the rain. It is the background note for their voices.  
Will's gaze darts away and he sighs.  
He answers.

"Yes, I will be."


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shame I cannot add sound to writing.  
> I would recommend one who reads this to listen to the track for 'Tome-Wan' on YouTube.  
> It suits the chapter.  
> And the whole work, I would argue.

.  
.  
Arriving at the crime scene, Will felt a rush of ghostly adrenaline - reminding him with more clarity of what he's created.  
Beauty, for some. Chaos, for all else. For him - a mixture of both.  
Seeing police line tape frantically wrapped around trees, the body in the center surrounded by evidence labels...  
Teams of police officers, forensic scientists, and Jack standing with his hands in his pockets, harsh wind blowing snowflakes from his fedora and into the scrunched up expression. The one he always wears at the sight of a crime scene like that - something so sickly dark... art he can't stomach to understand.  
Will found himself fighting a smile upon seeing what he'd caused. A quiet, partially foreign, yet distantly familiar feeling of sinister satisfaction coursed through him. He was behind the veil. A double agent, of sorts.  
He thought of how Hannibal must have felt, all this time - being in this position, investigating his own crimes.  
The brimming exhilaration and sense of superiority upon succeeding in hiding every single piece of evidence. Observing closely the way psychologists describe and explain his crimes and what they think is behind each of them.  
A game of chess Hannibal was Oh Such a Master at. The brilliance of the investigations matching that of the crimes investigated, up until the moment where the brilliance broke itself off and assumed its own position.  
Hannibal himself arrived, as if timed to do so in order to give Will time to take in the sight by himself.  
Will felt his heartbeat quicken upon seeing Hannibal park near the police cars.  
He already knew what kind of explanation he would give Jack - a description of the crime he himself has committed.  
  
A thrill ran down his spine, yet Will's pride was suddenly interrupted by a nagging string of thoughts.  
How... How did he get to this point? How had he abandoned every principle in his life; how wouldn't he shatter himself doing this?  
And yet.  
A step already taken. A choice already made.  
A line already crossed.  
His conscience gnawed on the freed instincts and desires, logic and drive mixing, he was unable to distinguish what belonged where - the boxes he'd placed his mind in, spilling over each other. 

As tense seconds of inner battle dragged his mind, thick and sticky, yet hard as edges of stone, Hannibal had gotten out of his car and made his way to Jack - they were silently conversing.  
Hannibal cast a gaze in Will's direction. An expectant, yet silently provocative look. 

Reassurance yet again seeped into Will when he met Hannibal's gaze.  
He wouldn't let doubt destroy what he'd been letting out - himself - one tug of a chain at a time.  
In BSCI, Will felt less imprisoned of the bars, than of Hannibal's lies and his own plaguing thoughts. The darkness boiling under the cover of wanting Hannibal dead.  


He had to make an effort. To put on a show.

His thoughts blurred back into reality. Clarity sharpened his eyes. He inhaled and felt the cool air cleanse his lungs and redden his nose.  
He strode over to Jack, still speaking with Hannibal.  
"How the hell do people even begin to think of doing something like this.. is.... beyond me."  
Hannibal lets out a small chuckle, locking eyes with Will.  
"Those who don't think like anybody else will always present the 'anybody else' with a lot of trouble in understanding them."  
  
Jack looked at Will as well. A careful measuring look. Will returned it.  
He saw himself lifting into a dark space - three glowing figures, and one token of power.  
"Hello, Will"  
  
Blink.  
  
"Hello, Jack."  
Jack's expression shifted, leaving only two figures in the dark.  
Will looked at Hannibal.  
The vision melted away, leaving Will in an air of anticipation.  
  
It's begun.  
  
"Got any.. commentary on this one, Will?" Jack pointed at the strung up, blueish pale body, covered in black, crusted blood, shrunken bowels hanging from the gash in his stomach.  
  
Blink.  
  
Will followed Jack's finger with his eyes and slowly stepped towards the body. His footsteps rung, until they were replaced by the steady beats of his heart.  
Darkness replaced the daylight, and the sun rays turned a subtle silver. Will shivered - the same thrill he felt not too long ago.  
What he'd done that night came together in slow and rhythmic flows, his butterfly arranging itself before him.  
Words echoed through the cool of the night.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶.  
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳  
-  
𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, while 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

Will.. awoke.  
Sounds of photographers and snow crackling under boots replaced the divinity of his memory's sounds.  
He turned to Jack. 

"What do you see, Will?"  
Jack and Hannibal were now behind him. He turned to face them.  
The plan made its way to the front of his mind again, coating his true thoughts.  
"This.. This is an epiphany." Will started pacing slowly towards them. "It's not a first time kill, though the display is a newfound passion of his. He's visibly inexperienced. The killer is, and has been aware of his tendencies, what's been calling out to him."  
"An admission - of sorts. He leaves the chrysalis now, transformed." Hannibal starts pacing just as carefully, closer to Will. "A flying insect, in our case a butterfly.. It is an ancient symbol of transformation. A change."  
"You mentioned his inexperience being visible"- Hannibal continued. "I would add my objections." He smiled. A calculated smile - enough to seem like a reaction to correcting Will.  
Enough for Will to see right through it.  
Will steps in a half circle, as a predator measuring another does.  
"A becoming." Will added, locking gazes with Hannibal, who subtly stepped in the same manner. A play. Only... the audience is unaware of its role.  
Step.  
A slight smile yet again grazed Hannibal's features, yet only enough for Will to notice.  
  
Step.  
  
Step.  
  
Stop.  
  
Will glanced over to the body, then back again at Hannibal.  
Hannibal sees.  
𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦...  
  
Hannibal diverted his steps around the Butterfly, observing it. Will followed, with just as much delay as would look unintentional.  
Jack stood in place, frowned at the grotesqueness that was being so delicately wrapped into words. It sounded almost beautiful. Jack frowned further.  
"You say it was a change, somehow. From what exactly would this be a change?"  
Hannibal looked at Jack, and back at the body.  
"The killer had been denying himself the freedom of indulgence."  
Jack nodded and his eyes fell to the snow before him.  
"Indulgence had seemed unreachable to him, the prospect of becoming tainted being fought against, until it burst out to paint such a picture." Will's eyes didn't deviate from Hannibal's.  
Jack sighed. "What changed? What drove him to that point of acceptance?"  
Will looked at the body, and closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale.  
The darkness enveloping the man, his wings shining, the blood glistening over his cold white skin. A buzz of elevation misting through the space between Will and the Butterfly.  
"He... Became." He rasped out.  
Will opened his eyes. Inhale. Exhale.  
Jack looked even more repelled. Hannibal held his gaze, the slight look of enchantment accompanied by the anticipatory wickedness.  
"He will kill again." Hannibal said, slowly. Will smiled.  
The two of them looked at Jack.  
The air of darkness and tamed ferocity lifted, as the noises of speech and cameras blurred back in, and Forensics approached Jack.  
"Thank you, Will. Doctor Lecter."  
"Goodbye, Jack." Answered Hannibal. Will just smiled and nodded.  
Beverly cast a glance at Will, then Hannibal, as a greeting, and a parting.  
"Goodbye, Will."  
They simultaneously started making their way to their cars, not parked too far from each other.  



	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend the second half of the "Futamono" track for this one.

Hannibal begins driving to Baltimore. Will does too.  
In the grey mist of the day, empty roads and Hannibal's car is all he sees. He hadn't planned on following Hannibal. His first instinct drove him to.  
He would definitely notice. He notices everything, after all.  
-  
Hannibal knows Will is after him, of course. They have no session together today.  
Or any day, for that matter - they are simply having conversations. A prodding, a back-and-forth that has turned mutual.

In what felt like just a few moments, both of them park near Hannibal's residence. He comes out of his car, locks it, glancing over to Will, who has already done the same.  
They reach the door in silence.

-

There has always been an atmosphere of elevation and divinity in Hannibal's office. It had always felt a little surreal.  
It has always become amplified when Hannibal is present.  
Will admires every aspect of the place and the harmony it creates with Hannibal. 

He eyes the stag statuette upon taking his coat off. The flood of memories, and memories of feelings distantly splashes at him. It has always been right in front of him, hasn't it?  
He's allowed himself to open his eyes, and the satisfaction of dangling the obvious, yet unreachable before the world, is shared.

Hannibal partakes in the silent aesthetics worship, yet what he directs his attention to.. is not the room.  
Will's curls were combed back, one of them fallen on his forehead. Reminding Hannibal of the times when it was wild, and oozed the scent of a fever coiling below the surface. 

By the thoughtful gaze Will was directing at the stag, Hannibal could tell they were thinking of the same times.  
Will's features had the sheen of power visible below them. He gorged his eyes on him, taking in the sight he could never recreate on paper, nor in words. 

"When was the last time you encountered the stag?"  
As Will faces him, his expression changes almost unnoticeably, his lips quirk up just as much. But of course, Hannibal notices.  
He notices everything, after all.  
Especially Will.

"I last saw it in that dream I told you about. I can't say the same about the other being that used to plague my dreams."

"Used to? Is it no longer a representation of a threat in your subconscious?"

Will begins pacing. His eyes caress every detail, and catch every shadow the dim lights cast in the room.  
Hannibal considers the fleeting idea of starting a fire - to replace the lights.  
He reached the fireplace slowly yet intently.  
-  
The air became gradually infused with the raw scent of wood and coal, as the heat subtly filled the coolness of the study. Warm shadows swirled around the room.

"He is more a companion now, rather than an enemy." Will finally answered. His eyes fell to the fire before them.

Hannibal took his time in answering.  
Will unleashing the monster came with its allegiance. He would've realized that as soon as he saw taking a life through something other than the constructed wall of ugliness he'd given it - for the chaos to stop. Hannibal had intervened with the flow of change in Will.. with growing enchantment.  
"Was the enemy ever yours to combat..?" Hannibal put his hands in his pockets and looked at the other.  
"I thought it was. I always have. I note that it never tried to harm me." Will said quietly. The tones he uses with Hannibal echo trust.  
He nods, knowing Will notices it.  
He zones out in the fire, finally giving himself permission to admire it openly.  
\----  
Will gets lost in the fire just as much.  
The sway and twirl of the flames, ..the occasional crack and growl of the overheated wood entrance him.  
He looks over to Hannibal in his haze. His eyes reflect the dance of the flames, as if it's not just a reflection. His features bathe in the shifting light.  
It strikes Will how beautiful he is. A subconscious smile moves his lips.  
"You like the fire." Will almost whispers.  
Hannibal's expression doesn't change as he lifts his eyes to Will's, apart from returning the slight smile just as subconsciously.  
"I've always been fascinated with fire and its philosophy." He returns his eyes to the flames.

"The capacity to destroy, and the power to create." Will mirrors Hannibal.  
Hannibal smiles.

"A symbol of the human intelligence and freedom of willpower."

"Grants full control over one's surroundings." Will adds.

Hannibal licks his lips. "A choice that could fuel the common good or the personal desire."

"It depends on what one's desires, and perception of power is. You are condemned over using it for destruction." 

"Yes. Free will doesn't exclude the consequences of its usage."

"Power comes with unpleasant outcomes when in incompetent hands." Will contemplates.

"Yet it is deemed as fair by the affected."  
Will pauses. Hannibal notes his eyes shimmering over the ethereal mix of blue and orange. The harmony between fire and water.  
They've shifted closer through the conversation, and the heat between them is no longer just the fire.

"Then is fairness defined by reciprocation? If so, nothing differentiates the pursuit of fairness from the act of revenge."

"People define what they do to make themselves seem deserving of praise."

"It's not a fight over who gets the 'good' or 'evil' label."

"Reciprocation is mistook for balance."

Hannibal's voice caresses Will's senses.  


"Balance is more of a combination of spectrum placements, than an equally distributed amount of good and bad." Will says.

Hannibal and Will lock gazes.  
"Good and bad are viewed through religious lens. If we take them away, we're left with nothing. No balance, nor a pursuit of it."

"The image of God is the all-accepting, all-loving, creator and savior of mankind. Yet he kills his creations to grant himself the feeling of power. And he gloats."  
"The power of creating is different from the power of destroying. Would God be satisfied with allowing himself only the former?"  
Hannibal's eyes darken. The words are lowly uttered, yet Will feels the vibration in his whole being.  
"Possessors of fire have the power to pick both, as well. It's why man was denied fire before it was stolen. It has always been a godly treasure."

Hannibal looks at the fire again, considering the words and their accuracy, and turns around. Will follows him with his eyes. 

He returns with two glasses and a bottle. He doesn't describe it. He just opens and pours equal amounts in both glasses.  
His motions are liquid - every move he makes is controlled and fluid.  
Will can't help the fascination to seep into his eyes, nor the shiver that tingles his skin upon touching Hannibal's hand when taking the glass from him.  
The wine tastes richer when he's looking into Hannibal's eyes. Almost as though not only the wine is being drank, but a feel of what Hannibal must be tasting.

They stand significantly close, and their height difference is a little more noticeable.  
"I wonder when the team will realize something is off with the butterfly."  
Hannibal grins lightly. "Even more off."

Will smiles back.  
"Even more off."


	13. XIII

The cacophony of footsteps and tools, distant voices and close ones, rattle in Jack's brain. He is, as usual, shaken by what he's presented with, and the type of killer he yet again has to go after. He concentrates on shaking it off.  
"Here is something else interesting about the Butterfly - hidden among the coats of dried up blood and the intestines which were hanging, we found out that the heart was missing." Price chimes in. Jack looks to him, his mind suddenly very present.  
"The cut is definitely surgical. A rib spreader has been used, and it appears to have been done very carefully."  
"Looks like our friend here didn't wanna disturb the picture. Report says he'd been gutted days before the heart removal." Zeller adds.  
"What, he changed his mind on what he wanted days after he finished?" Jack frowned, looking at the report and not seeing enough.

Jimmy and Zeller glanced at each other in excitement.  
"We think it's not the same killer."  
Jack raises his brows in expectance.  
"Well, aside from the cuts being made with different knives, the fashion of the mutilations is entirely different. The gutter was sloppier. The same man who killed him wasn't the one that took the heart."  
Jack thought for a little, squinted and looked at Price.  
"Will said something about this being the first kill of this man."  
Zeller nodded.  
"Yeah, it shows. It's still impressive, but a little messy."  
Price narrowed his eyes.  
"Therefore it wouldn't be surprising he got a little help. But what did he do with the heart?" Jack continued.   
"It would be too damaged, or old, to serve as a surgical 'trophy'. It's more symbolic." - Says Zeller.   
Jack fought to get his thoughts out, but the idea was too nagging not to let out.  
"This all very much reminds me of The Ripper."  
"The design is similarly theatrical, but the report is contradictory. If The Ripper didn't kill him, he may at least be the mutilator."  
"The Chesapeake Ripper harvests organs from his victims while they're still using them!" Price argues.  
"It can't be The Chesapeake Ripper." Jack returns.  
Zeller stutters at him, as if to remind him of the fact that he brought it up.

Jack digs as far as his shovel penetrates.  
"Does The Chesapeake Ripper indulge in symbolic use of organs? Up until now, only the design has been of significance, not the organ removal."

"We'll find out if it's him. We'll be expecting two more bodies."  
Jack looks, unimpressed, to Brian.  
"We could be waiting for weeks."

  


"It looks like something the Ripper would orchestrate, but it's not done by him." Says Zeller.  
.  
..  
...  
..  
.  
Will returns to his classroom. The high ceiling scattered with dim lights, students breathing silently in anticipation, more or less for the lesson, or its end.  
He doesn't present the Butterfly kill. As much of a use he'd put his feigning abilities to, teaching about a killer he himself is, is something he's not prepared for. He imagines Hannibal would be good at it. His person suit had tighter stitches.  
  
The room empties out. Nobody else comes in. Not Jack, certainly not Alana. Not Hannibal.  
  
As if the lights get dimmer, he feels his mind and soul separate and leave his body. He relaxes in his chair, the silent ticking of stag hoofs hollowing into the serenity of his mind.  
  
It's both sharp and cozy in there, a dance between made up and established borders. A dance, the movements of which are unclear in their direction. He thought he'd have a more distinguished direction as his insides unraveled before him and into the world, yet he seems to lack.. vision. It's himself he cannot see, fully.  
-  
\--  
-  
Hannibal sees it. He sees it in his eyes, smells it among the blend of Will's aroma.  
  
Even though it's faded, the bitterness is still there.  
He'd be wary of it all, had it not been the amount of what Will's shared, and the significance of what he's done. The danger in Will's musk seeps into the air around him, and Hannibal, as used to it as he'd been, does not desire to be the target. Months ago he would have. When Will's murderous confession had sparked in him a feeling he didn't recognize. Now he does not revel in the feeling anymore, nor in the confession.  
What was wrong..?  
Why was he bitter only inside?  
He'd have to find out sooner rather than later. He wouldn't take it, otherwise.  
.  
His heart wouldn't take it.  
.


	14. XIV

Will is pleased to not have Hannibal bring up the fact that he followed him. It had felt oddly natural.  
Splayed on his bed, he senses the mute blaze of the fireplace engulfing the room. His pack scattered around it, sleeping.  
He takes a mindless sip of his whisky.  
He was tired.  
The feeling of belonging he'd felt, followed by a wave of doubt. He didn't let doubt in - it was simply inevitable.  
He could recount the thrill of his design, could feel again his stomach twist as he locked gaze with Hannibal over the body he'd marked.  
The body 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘥 marked.  
He could pour memories over the present, but they eventually washed away. Leaving a hole.  
Something was missing, something achingly important. Something had gnawed a giant gaping hole in his heart. Prodding, spoiling, ripping apart.

Among all the shattered pieces, all unclarity in his mind, something stood out, its absence greater than the troubling presences.  
It took him digging to discover the nature of the emptiness.  
It was Hannibal.  
It was his transgressions. Their conversations, the implications behind every gaze and word, were powerful, yet 𝙞𝙩 was missing.  
Will felt close to finding it, so close, yet locked away.  
He closed his eyes, giving way to intuition.  
He fell asleep. Clothed, atop his bed, his head heavy.  
. He felt his mind sinking in his sleep, sinking into the sheets, into the waters, into the abyss of darkness. 

. Darkness, the shadow of the Wendigo. His Wendigo. His... friend. His companion.  
.  
𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘰. Towering, spread arms. Reaching out, into the darkness. Into the sway of dust, beneath the glint of fire. Yet, restricted.  
Drop. A drop of water falls between its fingers, casting reflections of the light. The drops get more, and more, and more. Wetness slips along the coal black claws.  
Drop. The silhouette casted upon the ground gets bigger and bigger. The reaching hand stops moving. 

Dark bars slam before the Stag Man. His horns entwine with them, in both confinement and harmony.  
Smoke. Silky smoke.  
Oozing out, into the air, into the dust. Thick yet fine.  
The bars vanish, leaving outlines of dust in their place.  
.  
..  
.

Hannibal looks around his study. The either matte or glossy book covers reflect the evening light. The framed black and white art in contrast with the blood-red walls. The gentle yet aristocratic green of the wooden columns, the tactically useful movable ladder. All the seemingly non-matching pieces of furniture and decor he's picked and placed together, to find them a perfect fit. 

He considers the pleasure he finds in appreciating the beautiful place. 𝙃𝙞𝙨 beautiful place.  
Something gnaws on him. Will does.  
His deductive skills seem to be lacking when he thought of his recent observation, he frustratedly realizes that.  
He strides over to the wooden cabinet, pulling out a dusty bottle of Domaine Romanée-Conti.

His mind palace brings him no peace.  
The music has stopped.  
All he can hear in his attempts to escape the present, is the hollow drumming of a heart.  
.  



	15. XV

Will wakes up, slowly noting where he is and what happened last.  
He stared at his sleeping dogs, and the way the moonlight mixed with the orange glint of the heater. The harmony between fire and water.  
The last thing he did remember was the Stag man and the bars. 

He could hear nothing. His ears didn't ring, his head didn't pound. He felt the sudden urge to go out.  
Shedding his shirt, baring himself almost fully, Will unlocked his doors and went out barefoot.  
The night was cold and harsh. The stream had frozen, or it was boiling. He couldn't tell. Goosebumps arose his skin like small rocks, the icy wind blowing up and down their surface. He trembled, his limbs were burning and stinging, but he could feel nothing. Was that why he came out here, to try to feel? He didn't answer that, and the thought fell on the ground like a piece of metal.  
He felt the quiet yet deafening throb of pain, and he felt thankful for a moment. A feeling other than inexplicable emptiness was as welcome as pain could be.  
Blink.  
He sighed, feeling his lungs expand and his ribs with them, the sting of the cold air burning his throat. He knew what that pain was, and he didn't know what to do with it. It wouldn't fly away like a crow, it wouldn't fall to the ground defeated. Will felt his eyes sting from the cold, and got back inside. Inducing sleep was the plan.

Hannibal fought the emptiness, fought not to fall into the pit that'd formed on the floor of his Chapel.  
He strode around his mind, the absence of music no longer as troubling as the winds and whispers, the dangling of locks, the vacuum of the corridors. He strode passing his constructed walls and doors, the mosaics on the ceilings, the candlelit halls of his mind, yet he carefully circled around the holes.  
His feet had the floor crumbling under them, or were they the cause?  
He struggled time and time again, searching for what's wrong, blue eyes, a musky scent and a raspy voice always ahead of him. 

Hannibal opens his eyes, staring ahead to the cold fireplace.  
His hand tingles from holding the icy glass of whiskey. He looks down to it.  
This isn't his usual choice of alcohol. . . It's somebody else's. The thought floats around the grey waters of his mind, and the thought of that same somebody being in that same stream floats beside it.  
He takes another sip and his jaw hurts when he swallows. He gets lost in the search again. And again. And again.  
Sleep comes to him, but its usual comfort does not. The halls echo a sound he's unfamiliar with, and cannot describe in words. A type of pain translated into noise to accompany the sensation itself.

He wanted to see Will, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 to see Will. To look into his eyes, feel his presence before him, see the answer he cannot safely search for within himself any longer.  
His bed felt unusually cold, and the memory of Alana in it made it colder.  
The thought of 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 there brought a sting to his heart and the bed felt like hard ice.


	16. XVI

Will awoke, this time not in the middle of the night. By the muted daylight, he could tell it was around noon. He couldn't bring himself to check the clock.  
It hurt.  
It hurt him to move, to breathe. His throat felt dry, despite the amount of water he chugged down. Or was that whiskey? He couldn't tell. He didn't want to, not really. His house felt inappropriately full, the dogs felt out of place. The fullness of his house didn't match the hollowness he felt inside, and he felt himself annoyed at this unjustified feeling. It was back - the pain he managed to fish out yesterday brought him little comfort, despite preferring it over emptiness. The hours passed by, and Will had started regaining himself a little more. Only now he felt to whom that pain belonged. He knew what he'd have to do, when he sees Hannibal. He had to see him, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 to see him. It was the only way, nothing else would do.

Hannibal had woken hours before he'd gotten out of his bed. He didn't know what to do with himself, this cocktail of emotions he has only had a distant knowledge for, up until now, drowning him in its foreignness. He had no work today, seeing as it was a weekend, and his mind took him to that leather chair, as if about to ask Will if Jack had needed him again yet.  
The physical realm didn't comply, and he felt his eyes zone back in to the glass of water he'd been staring at for the past few minutes. He knew himself well enough to not attempt a escape though his most loved activities. All he knew was that this was not the time for distractions. For the first definable time, he'd have to wait.

Will gulped down the last drop of whiskey and the bottle clinked sadly on the floor, starling his dogs. He looked out at the darkness of the night, infinite stars riddling the deep black sky.  
The expanding sense of hurt was both intense and somehow.. distant. He knew the only way to get closer.  
Taking his coat off the hanger and shrugging it on, Will made his way outside. 

He hadn't been expecting him, but the ache Hannibal felt buzz through his body couldn't let him rest.  
How had he gotten to this point?  
He replayed their last encounter over and over in his head, looking for any kind of sign he'd missed, waves of patience and panic affecting each rewind. But he knew it wasn't there, it wasn't obvious, it wasn't forgiven. 

His ears stopped ringing the moment he heard a car park outside his house.  
Immediately getting up from his chair, he quickly stepped over to the front door and opened it. 

Unprepared as he was to 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭 himself, Hannibal shivered at the sight of him - Will, wet from rain and pink from cold. 

"Hello, Hannibal." - he said quietly.  
"Hello, Will." - came the almost immediate answer. 

Where was it? He looked into his eyes and didn't see the answer.  
Instead, he saw Will. Saw inside of him, puncturing every crevice of his skin, swimming in his very blood. He found he'd been looking for an answer within Will, and Will had been looking for an answer within him.  
Yet he's already found it. 

As Will inched closer, Hannibal stepped back to let him in. He followed him, turning right to his kitchen.  
"How do you feel." Said Will. It was more an admission than a question, and the admission wasn't Will's.  
"Like you do." 

Will turned then, facing him, and for the first time Hannibal felt naked. He felt seen, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯, it could puncture him.  
He knows what'll happen, and yet his fight or flight instincts stay silent. As silent as he does. 

Will comes closer, impossibly close, sinking, himself, and Hannibal with him.  
Hannibal looked different. He looked knowing, and he looked longing. The bone arena of his skull drowned in Will's stream, suffocating his instincts, giving way to the rational part of his brain, that, in this moment, could only scream 𝙄 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪.  
The emptiness they shared merged, filling to the brim with blood and ice and fire.  
The fire burned the blood, the ice solidified it, the water dripped down Will's hair and onto his cheeks. 

Will slowly reaches his hand behind Hannibal's back, and slides it up to his nape. The touch felt like fire and like ice, the scorching yet cold embrace, their hearts merging in rhythm.  
As they gazed at one another, Will reached in and out of his pocket.  
Hannibal closes his eyes for a brief moment, with no way to brace himself for any of this.

He felt the knife dive into his shoulder before it even did. The icy metal opened his skin, tearing a loud grunt out of him. His face contracted in pain, not entirely that from the stab.  
Will didn't even feel himself mirroring the expression, he could feel his regret, his pain and his forgiveness. He could feel Hannibal's blood spill and rush out of the hole, or was it his own?  
Theirs?  
He saw Hannibal even through the sheen of water in his eyes, and blinking it away only causes his throat to close even more. 

Hannibal's breathing gets heavier by the second, crying out a second noise of 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵. 

"Will..." He rasps out, and Will takes his knife out with a groan as if it were himself he was taking it out of. It clatters on the floor. 

Tears brim Hannibal's eyes and trickle down his face, tilted downwards. He slots his forehead in Will's neck and Will arches his head to rest on Hannibal's.  
They clung and stuck to one another, intimate and so, so close. Finally.  
Will could almost feel their tears merge and flow together, as conjoined as their blood. And maybe they did.

Hannibal's low sounds painted Will's skull and vibrated through his veins. His twitches, his squeezes, his sniffling, his ragged breaths. 

Will strokes his back , his hair, his neck, and feels Hannibal's skin chasing his when he broke contact.  
Time had stopped, or it was sloppily and unsuccessfully passing. 

Will pushed him back, enough to see, see the veins on his forehead throb, see the redness of his dark eyes devouring his, the dark locks scattered, his lips parted and trembling, sore and salty.  
They parted, tearing apart from each other slowly. 𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺. 

Hannibal braced himself against the counter, and gazed once again to Will. As they locked wet eyes, Will whispered.  
"I know. I can see it."  
Hannibal doesn't bring a hand to his wound, and his eyes flicker with understanding, among the bundle of all else.  
"Hannibal." He said, almost inaudibly. With a feather brush of his fingertips to Hannibal's half-hunched over the counter back, he turned. And left.

Hannibal bled and bled, from his arm, from his heart, from the wound he kept biting on his lip.

"Will..." He whispered, to himself, shaking. But he knew Will could hear him.  
It echoed through the halls of their palace, thundered under the current of the stream.

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘶𝘯, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦, echoed back. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦, 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘭. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

Hannibal smiles faintly through the tears. He picks up the knife, and carelessly slots it back inside, blood gushing out of the wound and painting the floor even darker. 

𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.


	17. XVII

He bled and bled, the gash throbbing with blood, his veins expanded, leaking it out ; his face sore, itching with tears. The wound clenches around the knife, screaming at him to patch himself up. He doesn't. The hot blood pools around the cold metal, but Hannibal feels as full as he's ever been. He bled and bled. All his other senses were dulled, allowing him to feel, to 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭. Feel the forgiveness he's received, the one he's giving. The one he didn't drop, the one that cut into him, tearing apart his flesh, sewing his heart back together. And so he 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵. He bled.

It's as if he's awoken - awoken from this haze, from the numbness that poisoned his mind.  
Will lays back in his bed, and allows himself to breathe.  
Feeling the cold night air flow through the windows, gliding up his skin like cool trails of liquid. He doesn't think.  
He instead listens to the voice that rolls above the waters of his stream, that vibrates behind his eyelids. The velvet yet rusty voice, affirming and threatening, scalding hot and biting cold.  
His hands, the very hands that create and destroy, that extinguish flames and ignite bigger ones. Bringing death to life, and art to death.  
The eyes, deep enough to sink into, closed off by a layer of ice, impenetrable, yet open. The brimming amusement, the shattered knowing, the burning love.  
  
The nuances of life and death, in Hannibal's very eyes, in his very self.  
Will runs a hand down his face, feeling as if he'd taken off a layer, shedding and parting with the cold metal bars, the clink of chains, the stench of watery food, the games of chase, running in some direction he doesn't clearly know anymore, and doesn't belong.  
Finding the colors and scents underneath again.  
He falls asleep, and nightmares don't come chasing after him. 

-

Will listens to the roar of his engine stop as he turns the key, the small movement catching his eyes. He looks out the window, to his dark little house, really feels the 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. Somehow it doesn't feel like a boat anymore, the little boat he can safely hide in from the madness of the sea.  
He steps out, and savors the cold wind, the way it whistles around the trees. The glint of moonlight on his keys feels welcoming.  
Will unlocks the door and feels even more welcome. Something immediately feels.. odd.  
As he looks through the room, illuminated by the moon, he spots a dark figure leaning on his wall.  
  
"Didn't know you had keys for my house."  
  
The figure pushes itself out of the shadows.  
  
"I don't."  
The same velvet yet rusty voice breathes life back into Will. Even more than it did on their last encounter.  
Will smiles and takes his coat off.  
Hannibal steps closer, his eyes shimmering in the moonlight. Will turns around and unconsciously freezes, feeling that pull, the eternal magnetic pull towards him. He briefly wonders what Hannibal would say about it, the string he himself feels tugging.  
  
Hannibal focuses, then.  
He locks his eyes onto Will's, smiling with what Will could vividly feel as melancholy, yet cosmic joy, the ache that comes with exchanging their forgiveness.  
  
He returns the smile and the warmth crawls up the space between them.  
  
Hannibal silently comes closer and without a word begins to unbutton Will's shirt, keeping their eyes connected.  
He finishes, slides the fabric off Will's left shoulder. The small sound and burning feel of Hannibal's hand against his skin makes it ripple with goosebumps. Hannibal gives him a reassuring yet curious glance, and the same fate follows his own shirt.  
As if the heat was physically emanating between them, so thick, searing hot, burning their game of winner-loser, shedding the cat and mouse.  
  
Will's gaze falls to Hannibal's shoulder. Images of the night swarm him, and the storm in his eyes finally matches that of his mind.  
  
"We match in scars."  
  
Hannibal smiles a little more in return, bringing his hand up. His fingertips lightly graze the raised skin of Will's bullet scar.  
  
"Even externally, now." His voice is a low purr, he quietest Will's ever heard it be, and he feels a chill trail against his back.  
  
He raises his hand to Hannibal's shoulder, tracing gently the gash, feeling the clotted blood scrape against his fingers, following the threads that keep the flesh together.  
But then Will breathes him in, his scent, his heat. Hannibal notices, and in that moment, the halls, the vastness, the crevices and hollows of his mind vibrate, filling, swarmed with 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘮.  
He could feel his heart expanding and clenching, his flesh pulsating, could feel Will's in his own chest, stretching and contracting, Will's blood thrumming through his veins.  
  
"Kitchens seem to gain in significance." Will rumbles, raising his eyebrow fleetingly.  
The precious moment echoed between every molecule of air they shared, and Hannibal can't bear to even blink, as if the image of 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 and this closeness with 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 would shed.  
  
"Last time was contrasting." Hannibal spreads his palm atop Will's scar, carefully adding to his Memory palace the way his hand looks, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴, on Will's skin, the way their scents merge, the way the moonlight glosses over their flesh, painting them in a divine nuance of white.  
  
And last time it did feel different, it 𝘸𝘢𝘴.  
Will leans closer, his body searching for the heat, his skin chasing Hannibal's.  
The quiet march of blood drums between them, shaking, calling out, to touch, to feel, to 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘭.  
  
Will looks to Hannibal's eyes again, and the intimacy strikes him another time, on another level. He feels 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥, he hears Hannibal breathe, and feels him ache, feels himself ache, and feels 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥.  
  
  
And as cloak of the beast slithers to the ground, he reveals himself before a mirror.


	18. XVIII

"We've got some things you might wanna see!"  
Zeller called to Jack, who was already headed towards the team in his frustrated walk.

"Show me." He settled next to him, frowning in anticipation of the information he inevitably had to receive.

Price walked around the lifeless half-covered body on the table, over to the keyboard, bringing up a map.  
"Discarded pieces of clothing were found in this radius, surrounding the Ripper's..-ish victim.... and somewhat close to Wolf trap."  
Jack leaned in to look at the screen, frown deepening in question.  
"Clothes? " He decided to ignore the 𝘞𝘰𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱 part for now.  
"Yeah... but anything we could've used, gone." Jimmy said regretfully.  
"Well, we got the victim's blood on them, though. We know it's not just random clothes scattered in the forest." Jack opened his mouth halfway to speak. "Uh-there's no identifiable marks on them. No hairs, skin, no blood- well, except for the victim's. Nothing. They're torn apart and were veery muddy."  
"And there's many - full-on outfits. Two."  
"The victim's and... the killer's." Jack mused darkly, catching a chance to talk.

Zeller exchanges a glance with Price.  
"Also! New clues from the Ripper." exclaimed Price, as if he's just gotten reminded of it.  
Jack straightened up and visibly widened his eyes in concentration.  
"We found... small-little branches where the guy's heart 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵," Brian reached slowly into the container of the tools, picking up the evidence with tweezers.  
"This one has-" He circled his finger around it - cautiously "-hair wrapped around it."  
Jimmy swallowed hard.  
"It's uh... It's - Beverly."  
Jack looked down, clenching his jaw and rocking on his heels once, both infuriated and saddened. The so-recent reminder and the brutality of that one little twig 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 fueled his relentless urge to 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘯. He knows this urge, all too well, all too recently strengthened. He has to stash it away, for the time being.  
He lifts his head, pursing his lips again.  
"So we know definitively the Ripper's involved."  
"Yes, we do. This one is shorter, and it goes through a tooth - it's tree-man's."  
"He wanted us to be certain it's him. We just gotta figure out 𝘸𝘩𝘺. We know it's not him that did the killing, so 𝘸𝘩𝘺 is he 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 someone else's work?"  
"They work together?" Price argued.

Jack took a breath. Looked at both of them. Took another. Looked at the body.

"We need Will Graham."

\--- 

\---

The sensual moment didn't break, it didn't dissolve, it didn't run down between their touching fingers.

They lost track of time, as if the train itself never existed, and with small steps, almost like a dance, they settled beside each other, shed layers of clothes, beneath the covers of Will's bed. But time didn't break the moment, movement didn't.

Will made the invitation abundantly clear - he folded Hannibal's shirt on the chair near his bed, atop his own. 

Hannibal looked at him with the same intensely concentrated yet slightly 𝘥𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘥 look, a question in the air, standing across the other side of the bed.

Will returned the gaze, his eyes dropping to the bed for a few seconds, then back up to him. He unbuttoned his pants, dropped them to the floor; swung down the covers. Hannibal mirrored the process.

He settles in, Hannibal mirrors that too, and Will pulls the covers over both of them.

His eyes return to their own place of rest and war, locking on Hannibal's.

They stare, covered, heads turned towards each other.  
The place is now of rest ; the war is fought, yet still there, lingering in certain colored dots of their irises. The ones that match. The ones that are visible in the dark more than in the light.

Hannibal reaches, slowly, towards Will. So slowly, Will feels it happening before it does.  
Hannibal tentatively slides his pinky finger between Will's own pinky and ring finger.  
That alone sets off the familiar warm sensation through Will's hand, to his arm, torso. Head, mind, heart. The buzz of his touch circles back to his hand, where it came from, but Will senses it's different. This time, the motion itself is new, the feel of it is heightened. Will faintly wonders when he got so attuned and sensitive to Hannibal.  
Hannibal is, yet again, struck by the sensation every small act brings him, every touch, gaze, twitch and move he shares with Will, the way his skin feels like it's vibrating, the way the drum of his heartbeat bleeds into his awareness, as the constant that makes itself seen when it's needed. 

"Do you ever feel as though you're drowning?" Will almost-whispers, and his voice carries itself to Hannibal's ears like a melody. He knows Will knows the way his mind is constructed, that he's aware of the cracks and holes in the halls of his mind, that the depths of the rooms he forbids himself from visiting bear a heavy lock.  
He wonders if Will knows that there's a stream penetrating the middle of his palace. 

"Yes." He answers.

"Do you fight it?"

Hannibal looks to their hands, bringing them up between their faces, and Will immediately recognizes that as a demonstrative act.  
He replies to the demonstration by fully entwining his fingers into Hannibal's. He's not an only receiver.

Hannibal's breath hitches at that, and Will knows it was intentional.  
"It depends on what is drowning me. Something I'd surrender to either way, or something I wouldn't near my skin to."  
His compromised sense of sight only amplified his sense of sound. Therefore his ears rung when he heard Will say, an unsteady rasp,

"What would you surrender to?"

He becomes aware of the intimate distance between them, and adds the concept of time-passing into the senses Will can impair.

"I would surrender to you."  
Time swerves into the air, merging with it, along with any heat Will felt in his body.  
His blood feels like it'll burst out, and in this moment, he can't decide if he feels extremely full or extremely vast.  
Hannibal looks down.

Will slowly shifts closer and leans his head on Hannibal's chest.  
And he feels. He feels Hannibal's heart beating, steady but fast, feels his heat and scent so close to his own. His hands ache to touch him, his mind races to the one beside him.  
Hannibal tentatively, yet desperately wraps his arms around Will, settling one hand on his back, to reach as much of him as he can physically, and the other, he runs on Will's scalp.  
His eyes are burning and he closes them, as the cold fire running through him is dimming his vision even more.  
He feels his own heartbeat thrum beside the throbbing pulse of Will's throat ; The melody of the divine halls finally swims in synch with the echo of the stream.

"I already have." Hannibal whispers, in a measured silence of presumption and awareness.

Will hears it, and falls asleep knowing it was tailored for that exact moment in time.


	19. XIX

He awakes before Will. Awakes to a surprise, even though his thoughts were too heavy, too present in the night, in Will, to stray to the morning.  
Hannibal awakes, and flexes his muscles to determine his position.  
He is completely entangled with Will. Their legs entwined, arms cradling the other, breaths synchronized, almost merging.  
He doesn't look to the clock. Nor does he move a muscle.

For a while, unable to say what range of 'a while' passes, he lays there. Every millimeter of skin he feels, atop or below his own, feels like miles and miles of contact. Every point of conjoined skin. 

A finger between two others, a gentle hand on a warm scalp; a heart beside another's heartbeat, rib to rib. A second is too much and too little, laying beside Will, enveloped and enveloping.

Will stirs, and Hannibal relishes in the way he feels his body adjusting to the move and twitch of Will's muscles. 

A perfect symphony of intimacy. 

Will's consciousness slowly drips into reality.  
His thoughts naturally land on the position of closeness he finds himself in.  
Hannibal beside him, under and over him, breathing almost through Will's own lungs, their shared warm air gliding in and out their throats.

Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal.

It feels so oddly sublime, unnaturally good. Will notes the faint wave of pleasure wafting through his body at this acknowledgement.

He knows Hannibal would notice as his heartbeat picks up, and Hannibal himself is aware how his own will inevitably react, the moment he feels the heart next to his rush into the present.  
A moment later, Will feels Hannibal's pulse quicken, smiling in satisfaction.  
He gently presses closer, and Hannibal feels his heart pounding against his ribcage, as if threatening to hammer and spill into Will's.

The quiet yet sharply aware bliss of tenderness overwhelms his senses infinitely, and he becomes immensely conscious of Will's scent all around him.  
Hannibal is overcome with the severe and inexplicable urge to suffocate himself in Will.  
He tightens his arms around him for a moment.

And he knew, he knows, it was inevitable to finally acknowledge it.  
His cock is throbbing directly onto Will's upper thigh, along Will's own stiffness pulsing against him. 

And he knows Will is awake. In this moment, he doesn't search for a way to proceed. Hannibal allows himself to be present. This would end, it will, and he allows himself to savor it, savor Will's beating presence along his own. 

The symphony of intimacy, consciously quiet, and steadily slow, morphs into an encompassingly pleasurable composition.  
Will struggles with the constantly increasing urge to roll his hips against Hannibal's, his hands slowly travel on his flesh, exposing and welcomed. He commits to memory every part of Hannibal's skin he feels on his own. Wondering; what the man is thinking. If he can.

It isn't until the pulsing becomes unbearably intense, 

"Hello, Hannibal." Will rusts out, his voice low, gravelly in arousal.

"Good morning, Will." Hannibal doesn't attempt seeking his composure.

He knows he has to. With great effort, Will slides his hands away from Hannibal's hips, disconnecting their aligned erections, the throbbing so synched, it felt like disconnecting magnets.

They lay facing the ceiling, beside each other; two single fingers having sustained the separation, still entwined. Hannibal regains control, adapting over the waves of arousal. He traces the lines on the skin of Will's finger, more than content to keep laying next to him.  
Will blinks slowly, listening to the ambience of Hannibal's breathing, his dogs' breathing; the wind, stroking the grass.

-  
\--  
-

The two of them fall away in the flow of circumstance and limits; parting not without the fire and electricity of eye contact, of a much too gentle touch.

Will has the ability and time to think through.

He'd been swimming through a chain of events, leading to one another, him and Hannibal in a consistent pursuit of their balance - dancing in-between so-called boundaries. A plan had been forming vaguely, but he knows exactly what is to come, and what that which has occurred means.  
The front and the back of the mask now have a definitive line of contrast, Will thinks, tracing the silky surface of the bullet mark atop his shoulder. He sighs, not for a particular reason, reaching across the rack to fish out any useful tool.  
He sighs again, this time about the absence of remaining instruments he could use. 

He'd been clearing out his shed, taking with him the less than rusty screwdrivers, knives, plastic sheets, anything he wouldn't want left behind. Same thing to his house. He doesn't lie to himself. It's no purposeless, neat-need cleaning rampage. 

He wonders what is left to give, and what is in need to be taken. He wonders how much of his current world he's to sacrifice, how many of the people who played selfish caregivers he'd destroy. He settles on something floating between the answer he knows he'll always give, and the fatal smoke of curiosity he much too intimately knows.

Will locks the shed, knowing that when it comes to it, and it will come, the lock would be a mere decoration for the charged FBI, desperately rifling through its contents to find a shred of something important. 

And he knows, when the time comes, and it will come, he'd make sure they don't leave disappointed.


End file.
